


Johnny Weir's Great Big Walk-In Closet

by sk8rpssockpup (MissIzzy)



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: M/M, Makeup Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex in the Closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-06
Updated: 2008-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-26 18:48:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissIzzy/pseuds/sk8rpssockpup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's October and they're still adjusting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Johnny Weir's Great Big Walk-In Closet

**Author's Note:**

> When Japanese TV showed Johnny's apartment & huge closet in a fluff piece from their 2007 Grand Prix Finale broadcast, immediately at least one person said they wanted fic where someone fucked him in it. When noone else wrote it I finally did, about a week before Stéphane announced his first retirement due to injuries. Ah well.

The previous night, Stephane Lambiel had had his second fight ever with Johnny Weir.  
  
The first fight had pretty much been inevitable, because Johnny had never before been in even a relatively normal romantic relationship, and Stephane's experience had been limited as well, and neither of them had known the rules. Living in the same town and training at the same rink was like trying to begin their relationship all over again, and neither had been prepared for the reality of so constantly being with someone. They'd never even fought before; that was how different things had been. Stephane had expected it after the Swiss media had dropped the news of the coaching change, but Johnny had been relatively understanding and accepting. But a week of training and living together and it had started with an argument about Johnny's friendships and continued with Stephane's tendency to complain about everything American and gotten into both their cleaning habits, driving habits, rink habits, tastes in music and Stephane didn't remember what else, and it had ended with them both stomping off and feeling miserable and behaving terribly to poor Paris, until they had gone to another practice session and both gotten stern words for their lackluster work that day. That had been their first lesson in the need to work to keep things smooth between them.   
  
Though that time making up hadn't been much of a problem, or at least not something Stephane had needed to make any plans for. That had been during the most difficult phase of Stephane's new regimen here, when he'd ended most days feeling tired and lousy and how much his back or his groin hurt would determine whether he collapsed with the Petrenkos and tried to sleep until morning came, or went home with Johnny, who could make him feel better, but only if Stephane wasn't hurting too much for it. When he hadn't been that night, he'd followed Johnny right to his door and more or less begged him for sex. And Johnny had spent a moment looking befuddled before steering them both inside, kissing Stephane as soon as the door had closed. Their lovemaking that night had been so warm and tender, and when Johnny had moved inside him Stephane had cried because it had felt so good.  
  
They'd done better after that. Stephane had learned to pick up after himself and Johnny tried not to force the company of his friends on him, even if Paris often couldn't be avoided. It was hard for Johnny to learn how to compromise-it hadn't been that easy for Stephane either-but fights took their toll on the skating, which meant they had to be avoided as much as possible.  
  
Stephane had thought they'd done a pretty good job, though maybe his spending time getting treated for injuries in Switzerland had helped. But then again, maybe the tension with the injury and being away had gotten to them. Two days after Johnny's return from Russia, Stephane had expressed his concern about his relying too much on sleeping pills at exactly the wrong time, things had gotten out of hand, and it had ended with Stephane sleeping on the couch, by his own choice. He wondered if the fight had been worse because they were trying to avoid fighting, and if they were simply going to have to pay that price.  
  
He'd woken up that morning to a note of apology from Johnny, who was practicing both earlier and later in the day than Stephane; they weren't sharing ice that day. The note helped him through his own practices, but it also mentioned Johnny would go home to his own apartment that evening, but with Paris working very late that evening he was welcome to come over, so after stopping at his own place to change, Stephane decided to go and make Johnny dinner; he was always very hungry when he got home in the evening.   
  
He couldn't get to Johnny's apartment quick enough after that; the route still felt unfamiliar. The route from home to the rink back at home he could navigate in his sleep, even though the roads weren't as wide. But here he didn't always even see the surroundings anyway, because of the kind of cars that people bought in America. The big, ugly, gas guzzling cars. He hated those cars; they were loud and ugly and made him feel like they wanted to run him off the road. There were less of them around because now Americans had to pay the kind of gas prices Europeans had been dealing with for years, but there were still too many of them. It was when he was driving, or in his apartment alone, that he most felt homesick. The rink was all right; that was his natural habitat, and when he was with Johnny he didn't feel so isolated. But even so he sometimes felt the Ice Vault was too big, too...too easy, really. He'd wanted that, of course, but it still hadn't stopped feeling strange, and Johnny was...well, Johnny, and that was still overwhelming and just a little scary.  
  
He had a key to Johnny's place, and Johnny had told him to think of it as his own. Part of him wanted to. He didn't think of his own apartment as home at all; it was just too empty. But Johnny's home was too fancy, too pretty.  _The Prince is never comfortable in the chambers of the Princess; it is her ground, and he is all too aware of that._  At least he didn't giggle this time when he entered the kitchen.  
  
He was comfortable enough once he got in, though. He had two full sets of his own kitchen tools, and one of them lived in Johnny's kitchen, and Johnny made even more of an effort than Stephane to keep them clean and neatly arranged. He was also responsible for a lot of the fridge contents, and now he happily drew everything out and got to work.   
  
He timed things perfectly; five minutes before the everything would be ready he heard the door opening. His nose led Johnny into the kitchen, and Stephane turned to see his nervous expression give way to a delighted smile. "I love you," he said simply, and kissed Stephane for all he was worth.  
  
His body was hot and sweaty, the faint smell of the ice still clinging to him. Stephane felt his groin twitch and grow hot. Somehow he managed to pull away and said, "Three minutes, I think."  
  
"Oh, good." He headed for the dining room, and Stephane took advantage of the opportunity to ogle his ass. Johnny saw him do so, and laughed, "You really are insatiable, aren't you?"  
  
That was another difficulty of their new circumstances, because now that they were having sex on a regular basis, it had become clear that Johnny, like most people in the world, had a sex drive that was inconveniently lower than Stephane's, that he really wasn't in the mood every single night, especially when it had been a long day and he'd done double run-throughs and was exhausted.  
  
Which was part of the reason why as he took the plates out, Stephane said, in French to get Johnny's attention, "Last night, I wasn't just saying you take too many pills just so you'd have sex with me more often."  
  
"I know," answered Johnny. "I am sorry that I said that."  
  
"I suppose it does work, though," he continued, in English, as they sat down, "you fucking me to sleep instead. Sometimes, anyway."  
  
"I do worry," said Stephane. "About what you do to yourself."  
  
"I told you, I've tried other things," said Johnny. "Over the years. Sex, schedules, getting up for twenty minutes in the middle of the night, aromatherapy, listening to soft music, even a few Buddhist techniques. I think sometimes they even work. But too many times they don't." He took a bite out of his salad and paused to chew and swallow. "It's been better in recent weeks, though."  
  
"That is because you are eating better," said Stephane. "That helps."  
  
"So I've read. But it still doesn't get rid of the problem completely." Don't suppose you've ever had trouble sleeping. You even slumbered away in Japan without medication, which is more than I can do when I'm in that level of pain, let me tell you."  
  
"I had trouble when I first came here," said Stephane, switching back to French. "Before you came back from Korea."  
  
"Oh!" said Johnny. "I am sorry."  
  
"Don't be. I almost feel like I was self-indulgent, kept myself up to feel homesick."  
  
"I do not think so," said Johnny. "I may not have known about this," he added, guessing Stephane's counterargument, "but I know about...this." He shook his head; he didn't know the French word for insomnia. "You know," he continued in English, "if I knew you were going to be there, I would've mailed you my key."  
  
There wasn't any accusation in his statement, Stephane thought; he'd made it without thinking. Then he thought, and quickly said, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"  
  
"I know you did not," Stephane assured him. "Besides, I would take one look at your bed and sleep somewhere else."  
  
Johnny shook his head. "Oh, Stephane. You really hate the bed?"  
  
"I don't mind it when you're in it," said Stephane, deliberately switching back to French, and to his more teasing tone of voice. Johnny flushed slightly; Stephane quelled the urge to move on him. "But otherwise? That thing's absurd."  
  
"It is not absurd," Johnny protested. "It is pretty. Like me."  
  
"I can't deny that it suits you."  
  
They had just finished dinner when there was the sound of a truck outside and then a knock on the door, and Johnny lit up. "Finally! It's here!" He jumped up and bounced his way out of the dining room. Stephane listened to him happily greet whoever was at the door as he cleared up the dishes. He came out of the kitchen and found Johnny ripping open a package and pulling out a new jacket. "It's from my mom," he said to Stephane. "She was supposed to buy it for me for my birthday, but first one thing happened, then another happened, and when she finally sent it it went to California for some reason...but it's here now. Isn't it pretty?" He was holding it up to his chest and preening in front of the mirror.  
  
"It is very pretty," Stephane agreed, and he thought it would look very good on Johnny; the colour flattered his skin.  
  
"Now I have to find a place for it in my closet," said Johnny. "Come on."  
  
Stephane followed him into his bedroom, and then into his walk-in closet. Bigger than his bathroom, the mirror doors to it took up most of a bedroom wall. Inside things were very neat and shiny, though, to be fair, things were neat and shiny wherever Johnny lived for than a couple of nights-Stephane had known him to occupy himself cleaning hotel rooms. It looked more like a historical display than a closet actually in use, even with some of the very modern fashions, simply because everything was so neatly arranged.  
  
Looking around, Stephane could not see a place where a new jacket could easily fit in without crowding the articles of clothing around it, but Johnny had apparently decided how to deal with that in advance, because he was already hanging it up, babbling about jackets and designs and arrangements and Stephane couldn't really follow his reasoning, so he just smiled and nodded. Then, when he was certain Johnny was done with the jacket business, he decided he didn't feel like taking the trouble to get to the ridiculously overdone princess bed, so he seized Johnny from behind and shoved his tongue into his mouth.  
  
Johnny's arms wrapped themselves around Stephane and he kissed back, moaned softly as Stephane's hands cupped his ass. Stephane felt himself harden completely at the thought of burying his cock in that tight heat. But when he made to lower them both to the closet floor, Johnny disentangled himself. "No sex in the closet," he said. "Closets are not for having sex in. Closets are for hiding yourselves amoung the clothes and confessing your deepest, darkest fears in. Besides, the things are in the bedroom."  
  
"I know you always carry lube and condoms in one of those bags," said Stephane, gesturing to the extensive Louis Vuitton luggage collection neatly placed on the other side of the closet. "Or do you fuss so much that you always take them out and then put them back in?"  
  
"No, they're still in there," said Johnny, "But you still can't have sex in the closet. Not unless you at least do some secret confessing afterwards."  
  
"Or maybe I could put a suit on?" Stephane suggested, in French, of course, while stroking a sensitive spot near Johnny's ear. The last few days he'd lingered in Switzerland after Champions on Ice Johnny had seen a certain group of photographs on the net, then related several fantasies on the phone involving Stephane in black and grey suits and Johnny himself on his knees. Though he also tended to jump Stephane if he got him alone and in his flamenco outfit. And he'd related another fantasy involving the recent bullfighter outfit. Stephane thought the first few days after he got his costumes for this season might be interesting.  
  
"You'd have to wear one of mine," Johnny pointed out, "and that would be-mmph!" Stephane wasn't in the mood for logic, and Johnny's interest in it was also a little limited; Stephane diverted him by the simple means of shifting them so that his cock rubbed against Johnny's thigh, which made Johnny moan and rub back against it. He made no protest when Stephane scooped him up and pushed them both up against the closet wall, then slid his hands under Johnny's shirt.  
  
Clothes came off without either of them paying much attention as to how; soon they were reduced to socks and underwear, and Stephane was going mad from the feeling of skin on skin, and cocks pressed against each other through thin cloth.  
  
But as he pushed Johnny into the wall harder, he gasped out, "Wait-your injury..."  
  
"I know what I'm doing," Stephane hissed, though he eased off just a little. Glancing down, he calculated his position; he might have to manhandle Johnny a little, but Johnny would happily let him if it meant Stephane could fuck him up against the wall without risking further injury. And Stephane wanted very badly to do just that; since he'd first laid eyes on this huge closet he'd been entertaining himself with the idea, and now, with Johnny panting between him and the wall, hot and hard, with his hair rumpled and his lips swollen and his eyes alight with lust, Stephane had to force himself to stop and grope wildly across the closet for the luggage.  
  
"Second bag to the right," Johnny gasped behind him, "I think. Check the front pocket." Stephane grabbed the bag by its zipper, sending the others falling against each other like dominoes, and he pulled the bottle out. "And a condom."  
  
Stephane made an impatient noise. "I told you," Johnny insisted, "I'm not taking any chances for at least another year. Get the damn condom."  
  
Stephane couldn't help but feel disappointment; he wanted to feel Johnny without the barrier now. But now wasn't the time to argue, and he grabbed the bag again and got a condom out. Then he got on his knees and pushed Johnny upward and his legs apart, raining hot kisses up his chest and sucking on his collarbone, running his tongue up his neck as he pulled his underwear down.  
  
"Oh, yes, that," Johnny moaned in French as Stephane's hand closed around hot flesh. He pulled Stephane head up for another tongue-tangling kiss, but Stephane wanted to hear more words from him, words he'd struggle to form just to please Stephane; he moved over to Johnny's ear and whispered, "You're so ready to be fucked, aren't you?"   
  
"Yes, Stephane, do it to me..." He hands traveled down, yanked Stephane's boxers off. "Fuck me good," he added as Stephane got the condom on and prepared them both as quickly as he could. His hands went still and passive as Stephane pushed his legs up, putting his ass at the perfect angle, and he moaned loudly as Stephane pulled him down onto his cock.  
  
Stephane found it hard, now, to believe he'd never topped before Johnny. Now he fucked into him as hard as he dared, crying out as Johnny's hands dug into his shoulders and he started thrusting downwards, pulling Stephane in, riding him with moans and gasps and scattered words stopped only by kisses, all-too-short snatched meetings of lip and mouth and tongue. Stephane shifted forward to get closer, felt the muscle give warning and drew back, then Johnny made a protesting noise and thrust back harder, causing them to rock back and forth against the wall. Johnny's hands scrambled down Stephane's arms as he lost more control; Stephane himself was fighting to not forget everything and just slam into him and try to make him scream. Instead he pulled Johnny to him, until they could feel each other body to body, breath to breath, heartbeat to heartbeat. Johnny sputtered something in English before their mouths joined again.  
  
Now Stephane knew Johnny, knew just when to reach down and squeeze his cock to make him lose it completely when he came, his body curling and feet shaking against Stephane's back with the force of his orgasm. Johnny was still spasming around him when Stephane made one last hard thrust and came deep inside him, pressed against him, face buried into his neck.  
  
He would have liked to have just stayed there, immersed in the warmth that was Johnny. But it wasn't the best idea with his injury, and Johnny knew that too, so he moved off and lay himself in the closet floor, beckoning for Stephane to join him. "We still have to share deepest, darkest secrets now."  
  
Stephane lay down himself, but said, "What can I say? My darkest secret you already know well."  
  
Johnny knew what he was talking about, of course. "You said it was fine when you came back here."  
  
"It was. It is. But I don't know if it will stay fine over the next month."  
  
"Maybe you should skip the Grand Prix," said Johnny gently. "If you think you might get injured again. Keep yourself in shape for Europeans. That's the really important competition for you now, isn't it? You've won the Grand Prix twice."  
  
"I must point out," said Stephane, smiling, "that it is the one you will not be at."  
  
"Stephane," sighed Johnny, and poked his face.   
  
Stephane kissed him, cuddled him close, which Johnny really liked. Then he said, "Your turn."  
  
Johnny blushed, and said, "This is going to sound kind of silly."  
  
"Your deepest, silly-est secret?"  
  
"Yes. I mean, it should be my paranoia that I'm never going to land that quad clean in competition, and I'm terrified about it getting downgraded again, and I *still* don't know what I'm going to do with myself after Vancouver and I'm kind of praying for some obvious course of action to appear before then, but what's been haunting me for nearly a month? That with Jeff gone, I'm now the oldest!"  
  
"You are not the oldest," Stephane pointed out. "Kevin van der Perran is older. Sergei Davydov, whom you trained with last year, is older."  
  
Johnny waved his hands dismissively. "I don't think van der Perran's going to last much longer. He's injured again, he's been struggling with that, with his sponsors, he's got a wife now, who really is the oldest in her discipline...and for Serega, well, for one thing, he's injured too right now, and for another, when I say I'm the oldest, I really mean of us, the top group. You and Evan and Brian and Tomas and Takahashi, and I suppose we have to include Oda now, and maybe Sergei Voronov, or Patrick Chan, you're all younger than me."  
  
"Brian is not much younger."  
  
"He's still younger. And I've already had cause to feel too old and washed up in the past. I mean, it's reached the point where I'm seriously hoping Zhenya Plushenko does return and make a proper comeback simply so I won't be the oldest anymore!"  
  
"And if he does badly?" Stephane asked cautiously, because word was that remained a possibility. "You'll remind yourself he hasn't been training these past two years, that you've been working harder during them than he has, and that your situations aren't the same at all?" He spoke in French to force Johnny to listen. "You have to be ready to remind yourself of that."  
  
"Do not talk in that way," said Johnny. "I do not want to think about that happening. It would be very sad."  
  
"But do you think about that?" he then asked. "About maybe if you have done all you can do, and you know you will not be as good as you have been? Maybe you think you can be," he added hastily, when he saw Stephane open his mouth to protest. "But, Stephane, I know you are not sure, are you? And you said a year ago, you have done all you wanted to do. How much to you have to love the sport, to compete, to not go? How long will that last?"  
  
"You're not really asking about me," said Stephane, "are you? Besides, I know what I'm doing."  
  
"Jeff knew. Or he thought that he knew."  
  
"You don't even have the hope that you might know."  
  
"No." Johnny shivered in Stephane's arms. "Maybe that is the true reason I have fear of being oldest. It makes thing worse. I feel I should go after the Olympics, leave before I fall to lower rankings. But I do not think I want to leave, not so soon."  
  
Another question made Stephane lips itch. His lips almost formed the words silently.  _And what about us? How will that affect you, when I'm retired after Vancouver?_  Another month, another few months, maybe another year, and he might have the courage to ask it.  
  
Johnny saw his lips move; maybe he guessed what Stephane was thinking. "I..." he started, then stopped. He moved to pull himself up.  
  
Then suddenly his knee slipped on what could only have been his own come, and he sprawled across the closet floor. His eyes darted around, and he shook his head in disbelief. "What a mess! Oh my God, I am not having that on my closet floor, oh, the suitcases, they're going to have to all be put back into place, and we knocked the pants down, please say they didn't..." He picked up a pair of trousers that had gotten knocked off their hanger at some point, examined them, and shook his head. "They'll need to be ironed at least. But first we need to clean the floor up and-my shoes, we need to get my shoes back in order, and my bags, and-and will you stop smirking at me like that?"  
  
Stephane tried his best. "I am sorry, but..."  
  
Johnny shrugged. "Well, you should go into the shower right away, or you'll have to do without one, because I've got dibs as soon as I've cleaned up this mess, and don't even think about showering with me; I need to actually get fully clean! And get my hair in order..." he was stomping out of the closet and stopping to check his reflecting, "Oh, my poor, poor hair, it's going to need so much brushing..."  
  
As he continued to rant all the way to the bathroom, Stephane tried to order his body up, but gave himself a few more precious moments to lie on the floor of Johnny's closet, shit-eating grin on his face, because for the first time since coming to the United States, he'd managed to feel like he was home.


End file.
